A Matter of Trust
by Ethos
Summary: The young ranger, dubbed "Strider", is regarded with suspicion by townspeople everywhere. He meets a woman in desperate need, who has been cast from her village. With his looks against him, and the reputation of Rangers to cope with, can he hope to earn her trust, and the trust of others, in time to save a life? (High "T", please read first Author's Note for warnings)
1. In Distress

Title: A Matter of Trust

Summery: Aragorn is a young ranger visiting a northern town and tiring of everyone's suspicion when he meets someone who needs his help.

Rating: Lowered to T - violence, language, and vague hints of adult themes

Disclaimer: As much as I wish I could take credit for inventing Aragorn and Middle Earth, I can't. All things recognizable belong to the amazing J.R.R Tolkien.

Notes: This story IS complete. It's been finished for about a year now, and I've only just decided to go ahead and upload it. I apologize profusely to those who have been waiting for me to finish my other stories posted on here. Frankly, I'd sworn off writing more fanfiction as I want to write my own novel and I have a terrible track-record on here. Nonetheless, I did this as a bit of therapeutic writing about a year ago when some crud was happening, and I actually managed to finish it. I spent about a year trying to figure out how to make it not be fanfiction, but eventually realized that the story would be unrecognizable if I cut out all things Lord of the Rings from it. So I decided to go ahead and post it. As such, I can guarantee that you'll receive weekly updates until the whole thing is posted (barring emergencies, power-outages, etc.). Furthermore, as I wrote this at a time in my life when I was very angry and dealing with crud, you might notice that it's significantly darker than my other stories. Sorry about that. x.x

This story has not been Beta'd, so any and all mistakes you see are mine. Hopefully there's not too many of them.

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><p><em>"But I must admit,' he added with a queer laugh, 'that I hoped you would take to me for my own sake. A hunted man sometimes wearies of distrust and longs for friendship. But there, I believe my looks are against me.'" <em>- "Strider" from _The Fellowship of the Ring (pg. 183)_

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><p>"I'm telling you, the rains are going to be scarce this year! You're making a fool move changing your crop out for that foreign stuff."<p>

"Just you wait, I'll make twice as much as you per pound."

"Bah! The cider's finally gone to your head."

As the two farmers debated over their ale, a third man slowly sat back in his chair, some yards from the others. His long ears were finding no good use here, that much was obvious. It was time to give up on this town.

After another moment's consideration, the black-haired man plunked down a few small coins onto the table. The loss of weight in his hand was felt keenly, but he didn't let any remorse show on his face. He stood up and began walking to the front door, noticing as he did that many pairs of eyes followed him, and when he let the door swing shut behind him, the den from the pub took on different, less forced tone.

Such it was in all these villages he came upon. Most of the people didn't want to cause any trouble, in fact, they wanted to stay well away from it, which was why they eyed him suspiciously and only spoke loudly when their talk was idle. They could tell from his rough appearance and odd accent that he wasn't a farmer, or tradesman, or merchant. They knew his kind at one glance and dubbed him 'vagabond,' dubbed him 'Ranger'.

Shaking his head wistfully, he stretched his long legs, striding across the street and ducking into a tailor's shop. His cloak hid it well, but his tunic was threadbare at best and worn through in patches. Surveying the couple bolts of fabric and the spindles of earthen-colored string, he waited for the shop owner to appear. About ten minutes later a gangly man with a permanent squint came down from his apartments and leaned his delicate hands against the counter. "I don't suppose you can pay?" he sighed, raising a thin eyebrow.

"In kind," the ranger said, and slung his pack off his shoulder. While the tailor waited, lips pursed, the ranger dug out a brown bundle and spread it across the counter. "It's good leather."

"You stole it?"

The ranger had to pause for a long moment to keep from saying something he'd regret, but when he was ready he opened his eyes, lifted his face and grinned. "No, I slew the buck a few weeks ago, and tanned it myself. We rangers must have some legitimate means."

The tailor frowned. "Indeed... I'll give you two for it."

"You and I both know it's worth at least six."

"Ha! You _are_ a thief! Six for the hide of some ragged, old deer? Hardly."

"Peace!" the ranger said at last, holding up a hand that was scarred and calloused, turned brown from the wind and rain. "I won't ask you to empty your purse. I only want a good, woolen tunic. The one I presently own begs to be put out of it's misery." So saying, he drew open his cloak to show the frayed tunic, and more importantly, to show the slashes that had been made in it by a blade. The spring rains would be coming soon in full, and he was not above wielding a bit of fear to ensure that he at least had a decent tunic to ward them off.

The tailor swallowed hard. "I'll see what I have," he said at last. In an instant, he had the buckskin rolled and stuffed under one arm, and then he was off to the back, humming some local tune.

The ranger tried to wait patiently, after all, he had little need of haste, but he couldn't get past the feeling that the tailor was dawdling just for his sake. It probably wasn't fair. These villagers, while woefully uneducated about the world around them and horribly suspicious of outsiders, weren't mean people as a rule. Of course, there were always exceptions.

The tailor came back after what must have been nearly a quarter of an hour and threw a dusty-brown tunic on the counter. "Will that be all?" he asked, his thin eyebrows soaring once again, daring the ranger to say he had some other business.

In that moment, the ranger found himself sorely wishing he had spare coin or something else to barter. He would have dearly loved to have removed the smug expression from the man's face, but he didn't, and while he was young, he was no hothead to throw away what little he had left just to satisfy his pride. "It will," he said, forcing his voice to stay light and friendly. "Thank you good sir."

He couldn't stop a wince as his fingers touched the fabric. It was undoubtedly some of the coarsest wool he'd felt, but the old adage was true; beggars couldn't be choosers, and he was fooling himself if he thought he was anything above a beggar in this case. Showing the man his current tunic had probably confirmed the man's suspicions that he was a cutthroat and the buckskin was ill gotten. The tailor was probably just trying to cut his losses should an indignant former owner manage to appear. Folding it up, he stowed it away. He would change later, when the prying eyes of the townspeople wouldn't be there to gossip about how a young man of only a score or so should have so many scars.

It was when he walked back out that he heard the commotion. Shouts, a scream, and loud, watery weeping were all drifting around the bend and up the road. The ranger's gray eyes narrowed. Something was obviously amiss. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he was running down the road at all speed.

The street seemed much longer than he remembered, and the odd little brown and white houses seemed altogether too persistent in blocking his view. Still, he made good time, and eventually the buildings gave way. The street opened up into the little common green, bordered with the village's more affluent houses and businesses. In one corner there was a large gathering of people, and though it was distant, the ranger's eyes could just discern the shape of a man against his doorway, muscles throbbing, face bright red. There was something approaching murder in his expression and the ranger hastened all the more to reach him in time.

As he came to the crowd, he pushed people aside, but then they became aware of who it was charging through their ranks and they made a path for him. It was a rare time when people detesting the sight of a ranger proved to be of use.

"Harlot!" the man in the doorway roared, temples throbbing.

Breaking through the crowd, the ranger looked to the base of the steps and found the object of the man's anger. There, cowering on the ground, was a woman. Her clothes were soiled with mud from the ground on which she sat and blue eyes beseeched the man for some little mercy, but they were surely finding none. More than anything else though, the ranger's eyes were drawn to her copper hair. He had seen it's like only once before, and it still struck him as odd seeing as neither Dunadain nor Elf bore similar locks. He also noticed the dark freckles that wrapped across her face, and as his eyes roved across her brown-spotted cheeks, he couldn't help but see the tears rolling down them, the purple stain creeping up to engulf one eye. Before the day was done, her eye would surely be swollen closed.

The little woman took a shuddering breath and her blue eyes clawing at the man in search of mercy. "Please! Thorn! I don't know what you're talking about! I swear I did nothing! I swear!" she pleaded.

It took Thorn a blink to make sense of her words, but when he did the hue of his face deepened from red to purple. "I saw you!" he growled. Big boots slapping on the stairs, he barreled toward her. His hand came up and flew down, only to be stopped by the steel grip of the young ranger.

"Good master!" the ranger said, teeth gritted. Thorn's arm was heavy and strong. He could not maintain this for long. "Please, do not do this! I do not know what sins the lady has committed, but none may warrant striking her!" Now he glanced to the side, spotting the wide-eyed expressions of the townspeople who stood around. Not a one of them came to his aid. "Please, calm yourself, and we shall discuss the wrongs and make amends. You do not want to be known as the man who would beat a helpless woman."

There was a long pause then, in which nobody spoke and the only sounds were the harsh breaths of the three people in the middle of the circle.

Then Thorn barked out a laugh. "So, you're her latest lover, huh? Might have known she'd chose someone at your level."

The ranger felt a twinge of anger at the insult, but let the moment pass. He said nothing.

"Fine. Both of you get out of my sight. Now. I won't be responsible for what I do if I see either of you again." Then he walked off with a band of men in tow, toward the pub unless the ranger missed his guess.

Leaning down, he offered his hand to the woman. "Are you alright?" he asked. Her dainty hand slid into his and together they pulled her slight form to it's feet. Even standing, her head did not quite reach his shoulders. It was a wonder the man hadn't simply shattered her to pieces with the blow that had given her the black eye. "Where can I take you so you'll be safe?" he asked quietly, wary of all the faces that now scowled at them.

"Nowhere," she wept, running a filthy sleeve across her face to catch the tears. "I've nowhere left. Thorn! How could he do this to me?" she seemed to say more to herself than to him, but then she looked up and shot him through with those blue eyes. "I swear I didn't do it! He thinks he sees things... awful things. I don't know why. I've never been anything but faithful to him. He just has a jealous heart, I suppose. Oh, please, please believe me!"

"Shhhh, shhhh, now Lady," he whispered to her. Gently, he brushed a thumb across her cheek, drying the few new-sprung tears. "You have nothing to fear from me. Rather, I would give you a poultice for that eye, if you would let me."

"I - I think he meant to kill me. I've never seen him so angry before... he never struck me before like that..." She continued, staring off at nothing for a good while before focusing back on him. "Oh please say you believe me! Let one person in this town believe that I am a good woman! I have never so much as looked at another man and I am repaid thusly!"

The ranger ceased all other thought then and simply looked at the woman, seeing the desperation in her eyes and the bruise swiftly growing, recalling the events that had led to this moment. He of all people could understand how completely these villagers lived within a world of their own making, insisting that a wandering stranger be a vagabond or a murderer... insisting that an innocent woman be an adulteress. "I believe you," he said at last. "But I dare say Thorn has made up his mind on the matter. He's renounced his oath to you, all these people bear witness. You're free to go where you will now. Where will you go?" As he said this, he unclasped his cloak from his shoulders and, untangling it from his pack, set it upon her. She was clearly distraught and he feared that she could go into shock without the added warmth.

"I - I don't know," she said at last. "Everyone is swayed by Thorn. He's a powerful man. I won't find welcome wherever I go."

"You could leave this town," the ranger suggested.

"It's too dangerous! In the wilds... I'd be eaten alive!"

"Not if I came with you. I have no need to be anywhere presently, and I can ensure you safe travel to wherever you wish. I am well-versed in woodcraft. There is a town that I know of, not far to the south of here, but far enough that rumors wouldn't make the journey, I think. I could guide you there and perhaps you could start afresh. What say you?"

Now her eyes had lost a little of their fay glitter, and she considered him thoughtfully, her blue eyes searching his gray. Knowing what she would need to find, the ranger looked back steadily, not blinking, communicating in every way he could that he had nothing to hide, leastways, nothing that would affect her. At long last, her gaze drifted down and then her eyes shut altogether. "I go with you, I think. I know you're a ranger, but I don't think you'd hurt me, or leave me in some dire straight. I'll go with you to this town you speak of."

The ranger concealed his disappointment carefully. It would have been nice, just this once, to have a stranger truly trust him, he had just saved her from Thorn, after all, but it seemed that he'd have to make due with her confidence that he wouldn't slit her throat along the way. "You'd best get your things then. We should set out before Thorn returns from the pub."

"There's nothing truly mine in the house," she sighed. "But... come this way. I know one thing that Thorn would never lay a claim on." Squeezing his hand tightly, the woman began to walk down the street with the ranger in tow.

The crowd broke apart before them, allowing them to pass, but they were hesitant in doing so and their whispered words rung in the pair's ears. "Rake," snarled one. "Doxie," whispered another. "Bye-Blow." "Fen." "Mab." "Mongrel." "Scrub." Their words fell on deaf ears, or nearly so, as the woman and the ranger walked straight ahead and out the other side of the threatening mob. It was disheartening, but the ranger could cope. He'd been called such and worse before, by virtue of his wandering lifestyle. The woman, however, could not have been used to this and he wished dearly that he could have spared her from it. Nonetheless, she comported herself with a quiet dignity, and ere long, they'd made it beyond the condemning voices, to the outskirts of town.


	2. Vagabond Rangers

Notes: Ok, couldn't quite wait a week... we'll see when the next chapter gets posts (a week or sooner). Oh, and I forgot to say this in the first chapter, but if you've got any opinions, critiques, and/or guesses to make, I'd love to hear them!

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><p>As they approached a weathered, split-rail fence, the woman's forced posture faded and she leaned against the ranger heavily. "Those people were my friends," she murmured. "I introduced Alder to his wife. I helped to care for Hazel's daughter when she took ill last winter. How could they think so little of me, to believe that monster? Were they ever truly friends at all, or did they just smile to my face and curse me when my back was turned?"<p>

The ranger sighed long and deep. "I believe they were earnest for their part," he said after a moment's thought. "But people such as these are fickle. One day they will praise you as a hero, the next they will spit upon you and drive you from them." He knew the truth of his words. Oh how he knew!

"How could I have been so wrong in my judgement of them? Or of him, for that matter?"

"All people have failures in their judgement at times. It's simply the way of things, I think."

"Indeed..." Her feet stopped then, and the ranger was forced to stop as well. She looked up into his face again, or tried, with one eye little more than a slit. "How do I know I'm not making such an error again? The others would have me believe that... well... no matter what the others would say. They've proven their quality. The matter remains though, I'm but a woman, and you are a ranger... a man I know nothing about. How do I know that this is not simply some attempt to get me far from help?"

The ranger's face hardened at that and he drew back, standing straight and looming over the little woman. A twinge of pain struck him, but it was from no physical wound. If only someone would trust him as he was, without having to explain himself. It was wearying at times. "You don't," the ranger said at last. "There is no proof that I can give you of my honorable intentions. All I can give you is my word that you will come to no harm by my hands, and that I will suffer no harm to befall you while you are in my company. It is for you to decide whether that is enough, but I do not think you have much choice in the matter, as you no longer have any welcome here." They were harsh words, he knew it in his heart and saw it on her face, but they were the truth, and that was all he could offer her.

Briefly, fear flickered in her one open eye, but it soon went dull. "You're right, of course," she admitted. "I haven't any choice. Anyway, I should think that a murderer or criminal of any sort would invent something more comforting." She laughed a little despite herself at the last, and the ranger smiled in return.

"I suppose my words don't exactly inspire confidence," he acknowledged with a nod of his head.

"So..." she continued, shrugging him off and slipping between the rails of the fence. "what is my rescuer's name?"

The ranger had just begun to duck through the rails behind her when he was brought up short by the question. His name? It certainly wouldn't do to tell her his true name. The need for secrecy had been pressed upon him after his announcement to a certain elven maiden, and he knew truly that it was wise council. Whether his fate would be to exist unknown as his fathers had, or achieve a greatness unparalleled by the many generations that had gone before mattered little. It was not yet his time, he knew in his heart, and the enemy needed no help in searching him out. Estel then? But no, an elvish name would no doubt lead to more questions and eventually bring unwanted suspicion upon him. The next names that came to mind made him wince, but there was no help for it. One could not be proud and anonymous. Choosing the lesser of many evils, he finally said, "I'm known as 'Strider' by some in these lands."

She raised her rusty eyebrows at that before quirking a smile. "Oh no, you don't seem dubious in the least. Well I, good Strider, have nothing to hide. My name is Heather."

Now Strider did go through the fence, and he did so with the sort of ease that spoke of having done so many times before. Unless he missed his guess, Heather noticed it, for her single bright blue eye was watching him intently. Straightening himself on the other side, he then bowed as formally as he dared without giving away too much of his upbringing. "Then I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Heather the Forthright of Arthedain."

"Areth-?" Heather echoed, her delicate features twisting in an attempt to pronounce the name.

"-the name that this land used to have," Strider provided. "My family is fond of history."

"So you have a family, then?"

"Everyone does, I expect."

"Except for vagabond rangers."

Strider frowned at that until he noticed the smile that Heather was attempting to keep from her face. "You might be surprised," he muttered finally. "You are quite the resilient woman, Heather."

"Oh? How so?" she asked. She didn't wait for his reply though, but rather tugged his cloak closer about her and began walking through the muddy field toward a ramshackle building.

More than a little curious now, Strider followed along behind. "After what you went through not a half-hour ago, I would not expect you to be so cheerful, though I admit, I'm glad you are."

"Well, it wasn't something that I'd do again, but I think I'm starting to see the brighter side of it," she said as she opened the door and walked inside. "At least," and here her voice wavered. "at least he won't..." She turned back toward him ever-so-slightly and gestured helplessly to her blackened eye.

Strider simply nodded. Certainly, had he been in her position, he would have been relieved to be away from some vile monster who was all too free with his fists. "No lady should ever have to go through that," he said softly.

She nodded and turned away again, but he could hear a quiet sniffle. "Well, there will be no more now, will there? He's tricked himself out of the one good thing in his life." She perked up then and moved to a sack in the corner of what Strider quickly came to realize was a barn. She dug her hands in and drew out two fists of oats.

The ranger breathed in deeply welcoming the warm, homey smell. "What are those for?" he asked. "There aren't any animals."

She tilted her head when she next looked at him, obviously confused. "Of course there aren't any animals here now. What do you think the oats are for?"

"... Feeding horses?"

"Oh, I forgot. I don't suppose you've had much occasion to be around horses... given your lifestyle." She whispered the last, as if she thought his being a ranger was some sort of shameful secret.

Strider did his best not to be annoyed, but worse than anything was the simple assumption that he didn't know anything about horses. He'd been riding since before he could walk, but, he added with a mental sigh, these people did not need to know that.

"See that tack over there, on the last stand to the right? Do you mind fetching it?"

Strider thought of mentioning once again that there were no horses tied up or present anywhere near the barn, but decided instead to stay silent and see what the woman was doing. She clanged some tins together, rustled the hay, then grabbed a rope and went back out the door.

Strider heard hoofbeats, then the earthy sound of oats being ground between horses' teeth. Picking up the heavy load of saddle, blanket, and bridle, he took a step out the door. "Go back inside!" Heather barked.

Surprised, Strider took two steps back and waited.

"That's it... that's it... Gotcha!" Strider took the last as his cue and walked out of the shack. He found Heather stroking the nose of a palomino mare with a rope around it's neck. Two bays and a chestnut looked on longingly, until they saw Strider coming with the tack, then they bolted off, snorting and kicking.

"You have to bribe your horses?" he asked and tried very hard to keep his voice neutral.

"Of course. They learn to run away when you come up to them if you don't."

Strider just smiled and nodded along indulgently. His horse came to a simple whistle and never shied away from the halter. Then again, his horse tended to be starved for attention.

"This one here is mine," Heather continued, kissing the palomino's nose. "Her name is Leotbora."

"Leotbora?" Strider asked, eyes glinting. "Where did you hear that name?"

"A merchant courted me once. He suggested that I name her that."

Strider let out a breath and didn't try to disguise the faint smile on his face. "Then your merchant friend traveled far indeed, or else was more learned than most."

"I suppose you'd know. How many languages do you know?"

"Many." No matter how much he'd traveled thus far in his life, it would raise questions he didn't want to answer if he listed the languages by name. He shifted the burdens in his arms so that one hand was free and moved to stroke the mare's forehead. Ears pinning back and eyes rolling, the mare snapped at his fingers just missing taking them off. Jerking back, the ranger looked wide-eyed on the mare, while the golden horse glowered back.

Heather just laughed. "She treats my hu- ... Thorn, the same way. That's why he'll never miss her. Of course, he couldn't claim I'd stolen her anyway. She was the only good thing my father ever gave me."

The ranger found himself studying the tack in his arms just then, but as much as he wished he could have pretended he hadn't heard her, he found himself wondering what all the young woman had dealt with in her life. Pity weighed him down, but he brushed it from his mind. Already he was doing what he could for the woman. No one could ask more of him than that, and it would do no one any good for him to wallow in the past wrongs of others.

"He'll miss the others though, and send men searching after us as horse-thieves, so we daren't take them. I hope you don't mind walking..."

Strider was a little surprised to find that he was indeed somewhat disappointed, but he brushed it aside quickly. "There is a reason they call me 'Strider'," was all he said, then he strode forward and began tacking up the mare with the swift efficiency of a man who'd often ridden in a militaristic setting. Tightening the girth one last time, he gestured to the woman and folded his hands, offering a leg-up.

Tapping a willowy finger against her lip, Heather smiled a tad sheepishly. "I suppose you're not the greenhorn I took you for. I apologize."

"No need. Come, we must make haste. There was murder in Thorn's eyes. We've spent too much time here already." She nodded hastily and he helped her mount, deflecting the mare's attempt to bite him artfully. "There is a creek nigh half a league south of here. I'll make a poultice for your eye there." Taking hold of the reins near the bit so that he could guide the mouthy horse, Strider started off.

"Let go!"

Strider's hand snapped open and his confused eyes landed on that freckled, porcelain face.

"I can handle her myself, thank you," she barked. Coming from her petite frame, it reminded the ranger of a terrier. "You're just hurting her mouth."

There was an awkward pause while Strider tried to process what had just happened. Hurting the mare? Hardly. He was just defending himself from those flashing teeth the mare seemed to be rather fond of using. However, if it was a matter of her not wanting to be lead like a child... he supposed she had every right. Anyway, he could hardly fault her for being sensitive after all that had happened that day. "I apologize, Lady," he said with a slight tip of his head. "I did not mean to cause offense, nor harm your horse."

She swallowed before meeting his silver eyes, and as she looked into them, she flailed about for words. "Yes... well - well I... Just don't do it again... please. I'm sorry if I'm being a bit snappish. You certainly don't deserve it after all you've done for me."

"It hasn't been much," he replied, then he turned and began walking, hands at his side. Three beats later the horse's head was abreast of his shoulder again, and the wild amber eyes of the beast gave him what could only be described as a filthy look.


	3. Ungoliath

Notes: I officially have the patience of a gnat, so once again, you get a chapter a day early. For those of you who, like me, tend to want to cut to the chase, I promise that there IS action in our future. On another note, I borrowed a few poems for this chapter, which are accredited, and there's a bit of elvish which, frankly, I tend to be rubbish at, so kind corrections are welcome if I've butchered it. I also want to shout out a quick thanks to Estel who's been firing off kind reviews. You'll have to wait and see...

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><p>They made the river in good time, and paused beneath the low-hanging bows. It was thin and winding, but the water was clear and here the forest was lush. The ranger began to ask the woman to dismount, but thought better of it, instead keeping his thoughts to himself. Taking his pack off his shoulder, he dug out a spare wad of cloth, one he'd kept for just such an occasion, and dipped it in the cool water. "Here," he said, handing it to her, "hold this over your eye for now."<p>

Her thin fingers brushed the worn cloth hesitantly at first, the tightness in her lips betraying her distaste, but soon she gave in and put the cloth against her eye, leaning into it's coolness.

"Better?" Strider asked.

"Yes... much better," she whispered, not caring to distract herself from the comfort it offered.

"You are a strong lady to have born that with so little complaint. I do not doubt that it pains you greatly." He didn't wait to hear her response, but went out searching for herbs. Finding some small white flowers, he plucked their blooms and stored them away for later. Young or not, it didn't take long for his well-taught eyes to pick out more immediately relevant plants and collect the helpful parts. Choosing a few plants that seemed best for his purposes, he crushed them and returned to Heather. "Here, let me see that," he said, gesturing to the cloth. Receiving it, he folded the medicines into it and dipped it once again in the cold water. "It would be better if I made a tea of it first and then cooled it, but we haven't the time and the chill will keep the swelling down. It will take some time for the herbs to seep through though." Slinging his rucksack across his back once again, he then paused and noticed how Heather's hands were occupied; one on the compress, the other keeping his cloak about her shoulders. "You'd best fasten that cloak so you can guide Leotbora... you have no other wounds that need tended?"

"No," she said after fumbling the clasp of the cloak closed. Her forget-me-not eye twinkled, but the ranger only observed the bruise's slow progress from purple to brown.

A breeze came up out of the north then and gray eyes met the gray sky. "We'd best be heading off now. It will be raining soon and the nearest true shelter is some miles from here."

Heather's lips had born a faint upward curve, but now they drooped and she studied first the darkening clouds, then the path before them. "Perhaps you'd like to ride some then? Mayhap we could ride double... or... if that does not suit, we could take turns?"

The ranger smiled, dimples appearing in his weather-beaten face and he glanced across the mare's smooth features. "I do not think Leotbora would suffer me upon her back, no matter how short the distance."

Now the barest hints of concern touched the woman's face as she frowned deeper. "Then perhaps you should have your cloak back. I could not allow my rescuer to become both cold and tired on my account."

"I am a Ranger, if you'll recall," Strider laughed, and began walking. "I am accustomed to weathering worse storms with less. Now come! We must hurry."

They traveled down the southward path, through many fields and thickets with little conversation between them. Strider's mind was turned toward the road ahead, unused, as he was, to making the way safe for others to travel. The copper-haired woman kept her own councel without complaint, and Strider had the mildly unsettling feeling that her mind was turned solely upon him, weighing him and measuring him in more ways than he could fathom. He could only hope that he did not come up too short, ranger though he was. No one wanted a traveling companion that thought little of them, and no young man wanted to be found wanting by a fair maid, no matter how distant his heart may have been.

Just as the first fat drops fell from the ashy sky, the ranger stood tall and pointed a gnarled finger toward a copse of trees not fifty paces to the right. "There it is!" he called to Heather, who had fallen a ways behind, her horse not being conditioned for the hard path. "We will make an early camp this night and, Valar willing, set out early in the morning."

Heather reined the mare in as she came alongside the ranger. "That is our shelter?" she asked incredulously.

"It's more than it seems," he offered, "but yes, I am afraid there will be no roofs over our heads until we get there. Two days after today, if the road stays clear."

Heather simply abandoned her poultice in favor of pulling the hood over her head and swallowed her disappointment.

Strider lead her to the copse, then inside it. In the middle was a great old maple, it's ancient roots twisting into the ground and it's branches flung high overhead. Around to the back side of it they went, and there Strider presented to her the place where it's trunk had been hollowed out over many years, leaving a space just large enough for one man to curl up in for protection from the elements. "This is the shelter," he said, at first with pride, but it was quickly tempered as he saw her crestfallen reaction and realized how truly humble his accommodations were. Nonetheless, it was nigh as good a home as he'd had these past years.

"This is where you live?" she asked, her voice unmistakably horrified.

"Not as such," Strider began hesitantly. Exactly how much should he tell the woman? For better or worse, she was in this with him now, and it could not hurt to perhaps make a friend of at least one of the ignorant townspeople of these lands. "There are a host of such places scattered about the North. They are kept well stocked lest a weary traveler need them."

"Surely we cannot both fit in there?"

"Nay, Lady. It is a narrow place for one. I'll make my bed elsewhere."

A thin eyebrow climbed at that, but she said nothing. Clearly the dubious ways of rangers were entirely beyond her and she no longer cared to guess at what Strider was about. It was all the better for him though. He went to the place where firewood was stored and drew out a few of the drier logs and built a small fire near the tree. Quickly, he set a tin full of water near the flames and cast the white flowers in it. Then he pulled out two napkins and set them upon the ground before setting some of the meat, cheese, and bread he'd bought in the town upon them. "I'm afraid our fare will be meager and cold tonight, but I'll hunt tomorrow and see to it that we have something more savory for dinner then," he explained, sitting down at last with his back against the maple's trunk.

"It will be well enough, I'm sure," she said from where she now stood, the bridle in the crook of her elbow while she checked the knots on Leotbora's halter. Looking over, she saw him where he sat and huffed. "If you wouldn't mind, this saddle is quite heavy. I'll mind the fire."

Strider's brow furrowed, but he sighed and stood up. Walking past the woman, he eyed the saffron mare distrustfully, and she pinned her ears. "Be good for me," he ordered softly in his native tongue. "You will see I mean neither you nor your mistress any harm." Relaxed but ready, he closed the distance and began working the cinch loose. There was the barest warning, a shift of weight, a tensing of the mare's shoulder. Strider threw up his elbow just on time, and hard, pointed bone met with hard, biting teeth. Snorting, the mare tossed her head back, and Strider spared no more than a quiet grunt before catching the mare's halter and stroking her head in a peace offering. It was not soon enough however.

"What are you doing?" the woman roared. "I leave you alone with her for the barest of moments and you strike her? Is that truly the solution men use for all their problems?" Her lips were an impossibly thin line as she took the mare's head away from the ranger and began stroking it softly, boring the ranger through with a condemning scowl.

"Lady, you have my word, your mare's teeth simply found my elbow, I did no striking. And is it not good for a horse to learn not to bite those who would help it?" Strider replied. It took more strength than he knew he had to keep the exasperation from his voice, but somehow he managed it.

"A horse should know that you do not mean to harm it, but I suppose I shouldn't expect a ranger to know that. Anyway, Leotbora would never bite. Here, I'll hold her head for you if she's too hard for you to handle."

Strider's eyes went wide at that. A hundred different retorts flew through his mind, but he bit his tongue until he feared he'd cleave the tip clean off, and little by little, his outrage fled. After a long moment, he approached the saddle again, but this time he knew he was safe. The wily mare would not be so foolish as to attack him in plain sight of her mistress. "Leotbora, ha!" he whispered, his habitual elvish lit coming across strongly even on the foreign word. "Galad-Cyll vi carth! Ungoliant, Im eneth le, Galad-Madrin." (Light-bearer indeed! Ungoliath, I name you, Light-Eater.)

"What did you say?" Heather asked, eyeing him suspiciously, or attempting to do so through her bruises.

"I gave her the name from the past, who has long been associated with light," Strider said in perfect truth.

"You know of history?" There was a curiosity in her face that could not be denied.

"A little," he admitted, finally managing to loose the saddle. He scooped it up in his arms and set it on a convenient low-hanging branch. "The man who raised me was old already when I came into his life, and he always enjoyed teaching me of those who came before."

She took one of his rough hands in her smooth ones and led him to the fire. "Then you would know myths perhaps? Perhaps of the elves? I should dearly like to hear more of them. No one in my town," here she paused for a moment, her eye growing dim before springing back to life, "No one from back there knows anything, much less anything of the old myths. Tell me one!" she begged and sat beside the fire.

"Well," he hedged, but he could not long escape the delight of sharing what he knew with someone else, not after so long alone on the winding road. "Very well. I think I know one poem that explains them as well as any. It is very old." He closed his eyes and the lines that had begun appearing before their time smoothed away as he recalled the words, and when at last his eyes opened again he appeared a far fairer and nobler man, almost of elf-kind himself, and he heard her gasp at the sight of him though it did not break into his thoughts. At last, he began to chant:

_"White shields they carry in their hands,_

_With emblems of pale silver; _

_With glittering blue swords, _

_With mighty stout horns._

_In well-devised battle array,_

_Ahead of their fair chieftain_

_They march amid blue spears,_

_Pale-visaged, curly-headed bands._

_They scatter the battalions of the foe,_

_They ravage every land they attack,_

_Splendidly they march to combat,_

_A swift, distinguished, avenging host!_

_No wonder though their strength be great:_

_Sons of queens and kings are one and all;_

_On their heads are _

_Beautiful golden-yellow manes._

_With smooth comely bodies,_

_With bright blue-starred eyes,_

_With pure crystal teeth,_

_With thin red lips._

_Good they are at man-slaying, _

_Melodious in the ale-house,_

_Masterly at making songs,_

_Skilled at playing chess." (The Hosts of Faery)_

When he finished, he was silent. The light that had been in his face faded, his head drooped and his shoulders slumped, and it was apparent that his mind was far afield, in some wistful place.

"That was lovely, Strider," Heather said after a moment. "I can almost imagine that you've seen them."

The ranger said nothing to that, but kept his own council.

"Are they truly so fierce? I always saw them as gentler beings."

"They are a terror to behold when they are roused to anger, but never will they visit their wrath upon those who have not merited it." The light pattering of rain had grown heavier, and Strider eyed it distastefully. "Forgive me, but I'd best see to my own preparations. Take your meal and take this," he said taking the tin from the flames and setting it beside her portion of the food. "It's hot now, but it will warm you through. I will return shortly." He stood up on his long, lanky legs and for once, walked slowly away into the woods, and if she stretched her ears past the plodding rain and crackling flame, she might have made out his quiet murmuring.

_"Sweeter than the viol's string, _

_And the notes that blackbirds sing;_

_Brighter than the dewdrops rare_

_Is the maiden wondrous fair:_

_Like the silver swans at play_

_Is her neck, as bright as day!_

_Woe is me, that e'er my sight_

_Dwelt on charms so deadly bright!" (The Fair-Haired Girl)_

It was some time later when the ranger returned to the base of the big maple. His long black hair clung to his face, aided by the rain, but his tunic at least was still vaguely dry, and underneath the new, thick wool he was warm. Perhaps he'd been too hard on the tailor after all. The coarse wool seemed to keep the water out better than any other tunics he'd had in a long while. Perhaps the oil from the sheep was still in it? His face split into a grin at that and he quickly sat down beside the now ailing fire.

"Where were you?" Heather's voice asked. Looking over his shoulder, Strider saw her squeeze out of the hole in the tree. Her features were wide, uncertain. White knuckles held his cloak tight about her shoulders. Even her black eye had recovered enough to show a faint flicker of fear. "You left in an odd mood, and when I didn't see or hear..."

The soft smile did not leave his face, but Strider nodded. "You are not used to spending your nights out in the wild, nor should you ever become so. Do not fear though, I was never more than a stone's throw away. I needed some time to think, and I can be well nigh silent when I mean to. I will not abandon you. You have my word."

"I'm just... I'm so scared. After all that's - that's happened..." tears began blooming in the corners of her eyes and she ducked her head away. "I know I shouldn't be like this... and I know you've never done anything but help me, but part of me wonders... I've known you almost a day. I knew Thorn for much longer before he showed his true form. What if you are not what you seem? I've never heard aught good said of rangers."

The ranger was stirring the fire and casting a thick log upon it when he sighed and his back bent heavily. His word meant nothing to her. So much mistrust, and all unmerited, but how could he blame the woman knowing what he knew about her, when others doubted more with less cause? "What will it take for you to trust me?" he asked earnestly.

"I do not know. It's not fair, but I cannot will it to change."

"I understand," Strider said, nodding. "You'd best get sleep while you may. We shall have to rise early if we're to make good time to town."

"Good night." And so saying, Heather crept back into the bowl of the tree and curled up tightly, Strider's cloak tucked in around her slight frame.

The ranger looked on with an overwhelming sense of pity before throwing another log on the fire. Once that caught and he felt certain that it would last through the night, he surveyed the immediate area. A fir caught his attention first, it's low-hanging branches providing much shelter from the rain, but it would also hide him from view, and he did not wish to scare the woman again. Instead he focused on a leaner pine, needled branches splayed out some distance from the ground. It was not much, but it would have to do.

Crawling over, he set his back against the tree and pulled his legs in as tightly as he could and wished dearly that the woman had managed to procure her own blanket so that he could have used his cloak. He could hardly take it from her though, so he folded his arms tightly against his chest to keep the heat in. Deciding there was little danger with such a bright fire going and few enemies in the North, he shut his eyes and drifted away.


	4. Fairweather Friend

Notes: Alrighty, so I corrected a few messed-up homonyms in the last chapter that Halcyon Impulsion pointed out to me. Heaven knows there will probably be more in here. Nonetheless, here's the next chapter for you. I think we're about half-way done now, so hang on.

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><p>It was during the dark hours of the morn that he awoke, great drops of rain pouring on his head and rolling down his wiry form. Glaring at the insufficient foliage above him, he nonetheless kept silent. There was no need to wake Heather with his discomfort. Abandoning all hope of continued sleep while the rain drummed down, he cast a glance toward the fire and was dismayed to find that it had long grown cold, the rainwater having drowned it out.<p>

Groaning, he stood up and set to moving the fire to a drier place. The next hours were long and uncomfortable. Watching the sky slowly change from black to gray, he cursed the wet chill and tried to remember what it felt like to truly be warm. The memory escaped him. And ever his thoughts wandered to his first home; a bright place with blankets aplenty, soft beds, and roaring fires. A place where he was welcomed with open arms and trusted implicitly. A place where he was loved. A place where his heart dwelled.

_Dreams. Woods._

The memories ached and he returned to the fire with a fresh zeal. Looking then up at the sky and measuring it's brightness, he called, "Heather, awake!" There was a groan and a slight stirring from the oak. "You must tend the fire for a time. I am going to see what there may be found to break our fast." There was no need to tell her that two mouths were straining the few supplies he carried with him. He took out his bow and strung it, before looking back to the oak. "Lady, are you awake?"

"Yes, yes, Strider. Must you yell so loudly?" she moaned clawing her way out of the tree, her copper hair matted on top of her head and fixed to the side of her face from laying on it so long. "I don't see how you can live in places such as these. The ground is too hard. I don't think I will be able to stand properly today with my back aching as it is."

The ranger's only acknowledgement was a slight raise of his eyebrows. He could not blame her in the least for disliking her sleeping situation, but he was in no mood to talk about her misery this past night. "I will return shortly," he promised. Fitting an arrow to the string, he struck out in search of prey.

About an hour later, he returned, a half-starved rabbit and a squirrel slung over his shoulder. Heather studied the poor dead beasts out of the corner of her eye, nose shriveling as he sat down beside her. "Surely you do not mean for us to eat those?"

Strider followed her gaze and laughed. "Is this why rangers are frowned upon in polite company?" he asked, setting the carcasses upon the ground. "Our meals are too mean?"

"I did not mean any offense," she chided.

"Of course you did." The ranger shrugged and slipped his pack off his back as well. "But it is well. Even I, vagabond that I am, would prefer better fare than this. Still, winter is slow to leave these lands and game is scarce." Dumping out a pouch from his rucksack, he scattered early spring tubers and shoots across the ground. His rugged hand, belied by a pale band of silver about one finger, gestured to encompass all his offerings. "It is this or going hungry, and we've many miles to travel today. Which would you prefer?"

Still eyeing the food distrustfully, Heather slowly nodded. "I see what you mean, but I don't have to like it. Can we at least cook it before eating it?"

Now the ranger's granite eyes went wide as he effected a horrified expression. "What are you, goblin-kind to suggest eating raw meet? I will see to the meet if you'll see to the greens." He drew out a knife with a sharp, upward hook and, picking up his ragged prey, took them far enough away that the sight and smell would not effect Heather, and there he cleaned them. It seemed a shame to waste the skins, but there was hardly enough to bother curing, and that was pierced through by arrows.

When he was done, he returned to their camp and spitted what was left of the two animals over the fire. Heather had made some progress with the greens, having set them near enough the embers to heat them. They passed the time in silence as they waited for the food to cook, but ere long the vegetables were ready. Heather picked a white root up and studied it, blue eyes narrowing, and Strider noticed that the one was barely swollen any longer with some satisfaction. "Are you sure these are edible?" she asked.

Briefly, frustration flashed across Strider's face, but he did not let it stay there long. Rather he reached forward and took the root between two calloused fingers before popping it into his mouth. Swallowing quickly, he smacked his lips a few times. "It's healthful," he told her. "But that doesn't mean it tastes all that good. I'd suggest eating those quickly, or with some of the others to mask the taste."

She picked up another white root and shoved it into her mouth gracelessly, wincing as she chewed and swallowed it. "Well, I suppose I understand now why I've yet to see a fat ranger."

"Indeed."

They ate quickly as there was little food and none of it was worth relishing. Then Heather asked Strider if he wouldn't mind tacking up Leotbora once again. Against his better judgement, he agreed. Twice the foul-tempered mare tried to kick him, and twice he reprimanded her, but always swiftly and subtly, so as not to arouse Heather's notice or her wrath. Double-checking the headstall, he leaned toward the petulant animal's ear and hissed, "Ungoliath, you shall be the death of me yet. But then you'd like that, I suppose." Then his voice rose to it's normal timber. "She is ready. Are you?"

"Yes, yes. A foot up if you will?"

Strider did as she asked, then slowly straightened, already feeling the night's ill treatment of his body. At his age, he should not yet have been burdened by such aches, he supposed, but they were a ranger's lot. "Do you remember which way the road is?" he asked the woman. She nodded in response. "Ride that way. I will be with you shortly." For a moment it seemed that she would argue, but nothing came from her lips. "I promise," Strider assured. Hesitantly, Heather touched her heels to the mare's flanks and trotted off. Then it was that the ranger turned his attention back to their camp, scattering the ashes of the fire and hiding all signs of their passage. Given the delicate woman's lack of trust in him already, he did not think she needed to see how carefully he went about hiding his tracks. It would only lead her to suspect the worst.

As soon as he was done, he rushed out of the corps and down the road, slowing only to keep from spooking the mare ahead of him. Heather reined in the horse and turned in her saddle, fear plain in her face. Upon seeing the ranger, however, that faded and a smile took it's place. "I would ask," she said at last, "But somehow I doubt I'll gain a plain answer if I do so."

"It is possible that you are correct," Strider said noncommittally.

They walked long on the southward road, beneath a sky hanging heavy with gray clouds. The heavens threatened rain constantly, occasionally delivering a few drops, or even a frozen pellet when the north wind bit at them with especial vigor. The untamed trees crowded the road in most places, bald black branches grasping at the sky, and dead grass shot up in stale brown clumps. It was a disheartening sight, the ranger thought, and as he walked, he noticed Heather moving her horse ever nearer to him.

Leotbora snorted, then stopped. "Come girl, don't do this!" Heather chided, setting her heels to the mare.

The ranger, however, frowned, his face becoming darker and sterner as he studied the mare's wild-eyed expression and flicking ears. "Shhhh," he said after a pause, taking hold of the mare's bridle.

"Don't tell me to be quiet, Strider!"

"You and the horse," the ranger clarified. Briefly, it seemed that Heather would argue, but then she must have noticed the set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders, for she quieted. Ungoliath - Leotbora - tossed her head and danced about, obviously upset, but Strider kept stroking her neck and breathing deeply, not daring to speak lest he obscure any telling noises. Finally the mare stilled, but great clouds still poured from her nostrils and the whites of her eyes were evident. _Snap!_ The mare screamed and reared, pulling the ranger off his feet. When the mare came down and his boots struck the dirt of the road, Strider did not delay but pulled the mare's nose toward Heather's knee. "Keep her head there!" he barked. Letting go of the mare, he hastily drew his sword and turned to face the wolves that sprang from the trees. "Do not flee! Stand firm and they will leave us."

"Wolves?" the woman shrieked as her mare began to spin with her nose tucked to her shoulder.

"Stand!" It was a command that the ranger gave now. His eyes flashed and he stood resolute as the beasts surrounded them, tails waving and teeth bared, eyeing the flashing metal in his hand. The alfa was bold though, and sensing the horse's fear, he leapt forward and snapped at the mare's heels. No battle-horse was she, and the terror overwhelmed Leotbora. Taking the bit in her teeth, she pulled her head straight, nearly unseating the struggling Heather, and plunged forward with a mighty kick. Off she bolted, as if all Mordor followed in her wake.

Strider did not see it though. Her kick had caught him well as he focused on the wolves and now he stared up at the laden sky, coaxing his lungs to drink once again of the biting-cold air, but his own wheezing was loud in his ears. The wolves brayed not far away. How was it that they had not yet set upon him? Then he heard the shrill cry of a woman and knew the answer.

Urgency gave him strength while still his lungs failed him. He climbed to his feet and scooped up the sword that had fallen from his grasp. Leotbora was nowhere to be seen, but not far up the road he saw the wolves swarming. Strider raced forward as best as he was able, his breath slowly beginning to return. Wolves scattered this way and that as he arrived, dodging away from the bright steal he bore.

There, on the ground, he found her clutching a mauled arm to her chest and weeping. "Take my hand!" he ordered, grey eyes never leaving the mocking yellow of their attackers. Slowly, her good hand reached up and closed around his, and he pulled her to her feet. Wrapping his shield arm about her, he pulled her in close before him and held her there. "Move as I do," he told her, and he saw the back of her head rise and fall as she nodded.

His ribs ached with the small woman pinned against them, but he grit his teeth and ignored it. Hiding weakness was all that mattered now, and he could not well do that with her on the ground. One of the snarling wolves pounced forward, fangs slashing. Strider struck out with his sword and, nearly picking the small woman up, spun her away from danger. Another came at his shield-side, and Strider swept the blade across his body, nearly landing a strike as the wolf melted back into his pack. Again and again they struck forward and snapped, hips and ribs poking through their fur, dodging back only when the ranger's blade drew too near.

Pain raced down the back of his leg and Strider stumbled forward, away from the creature that had snuck up behind him. It was too late to strike that wolf, the ranger knew, but the look in another wolf's eyes told him that it was preparing to pounce. His blade snaked out even as the wolf jumped, skewering the poor beast upon it's length. It's companions looked upon it in horror, their tails ducking between their legs. Then the pack was gone, melted back into the forest from whence they'd come. The two humans collapsed in the road.

Panting hard, Strider released his grip on the sword and turned to study the woman. "Heather... how do you fare?" He took as deep a breath as his chest would allow. "Is it just your arm?"

The woman nodded, clutching her wounded arm, lily skin stained with mud and blood. "Leotbora...'

"Leotbora is fine, fair-weather friend that she is," Strider retorted. "The wolves did not follow her, and I have no doubt that she will seek out some place of safety. It is for ourselves that we must be concerned." Strider regretted his harsh tone immediately when he saw the big, crystalline tears begin weaving tracks through the mud on Heather's face. Biting back his frustration, he sighed and put an awkward arm around her shoulders in an attempt to be comforting. Heather sat there, unmoving, staring at nothing, then she fell forward, burying her face in his shoulder and began sobbing.

Helpless in the face of her tears, the ranger patted her back with his filthy paw, saying, "There now, you're safe." Her sobs would not abate though, and realizing that she was fully preoccupied, he allowed himself to relax was well, weariness engulfing his eyes, dulling them, his face appearing more haggard as lines of worry shone through, far deeper than they should have been for his twenty-five years.

After some time, Heather's cries quieted. Pushing her away from himself, Strider ducked his head so that he could better meet her eyes. "Better?" he asked. She nodded and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Before she had time to wonder what he was doing, he cinched a clean rag about her wounded arm. She let out a small gasp of surprise and pain, but quickly recovered, understanding what the ranger was doing. "Good," he continued, hardly missing a beat. "We've lost far too much time already, and I must see to the wolf before we leave."

The woman's smooth face wrinkled with confusion and Strider caught the look. "The pelt," he explained. "True, the sword has ruined much of it, but there is still some left that may be of use." Ignoring her disgusted fascination, he first pulled his sword loose, cleaned and re-sheathed it, before pulling out his skinning knife and setting to work. When at last the pelt was cut free, he pulled a bag of salt from his pack and coated the hide with it. "There," he said finally, standing up. He tied the pelt to his pack and began limping off at a brisk pace. "Hopefully our luck will change and it won't rain. We need to get to a stream before nightfall, come!" Heather wasted no time in following him.


	5. Miscommunication

Notes: Sorry for the short chapter, but it was either one very long chapter, or two shorter ones. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy...

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><p>Nightfall found them sitting on the banks of a thin stream, a small fire beside them. "That should do it," Strider said. Taking out another long strip of clean cloth, he packed it with the paste he'd just made. "Your arm." She held out the limb in question, fresh black knots holding the ragged edges of the wound together, and he bound it round with the cloth. "There. That should help it heal faster and perhaps scar less."<p>

"Thank you," she said quietly, clutching her arm back to her chest.

"Think nothing of it. I am dismayed that such a mishap should befall you while you were under my protection."

Slowly, Heather shook her head. "You had things under control until Leotbora bolted... I trust you."

Strider sat up straighter at that, his eyes and face brightening with a smile that even made his formidable stubble look soft as goose-down. In a slow, purposeful motion, he bowed his head, then he turned his attention to the creek and rinsed his hands in the swift-flowing water. Running his fingers across the ribs in his chest, he was reassured to find that the baleful mare hadn't broken anything, and whatever she'd bruised he could easily deal with.

Twisting around with some difficulty, well aware of Heather's eyes on him, he surveyed the back of his leg where the wolf had struck him. It was a long cut, perhaps three hands' breadths long, made when the beast had slashed at him with it's sharp canines, as was a wolf's want. Spreading wide the accompanying hole in his trouser-leg, he scooped water from the stream and rubbed it in the wound, cleaning it and ensuring his clothes would be rancid in the next few days. It was not an ideal way to treat such a wound, but he could not leave Heather with ravenous wolves on the prowl, nor could he strip in her presence. It was the best he could do in his situation.

Picking up his hooked, bone needle, he held it briefly over the flames to clean it and strung it through with the black string. Hissing as he pinched the cut closed with one hand, he took a few steadying breaths and set his teeth, then he jabbed the needle through. As he worked, he felt a light hand on his shoulder, and it took all he had not to cringe away from it. Had it truly been so long since he lived as a human ought that he shied away from the small comforts a friend would offer? His brothers, his cousin, and many more of his kindred surely would have done the same as Heather did now. But then, a feral hound could only be kicked at so many times before it fled from sight or sound of Men. Truly, he was dismayed to learn how far he'd fallen.

Tying off the string, he finished caring for the wound much as he had hers. And once the bandage was snug about him, he leaned back against a stone and gazed out over the distance. So far their luck was holding and no more rain had fallen. Moreover, there were mackerel skies that night, telling of a change in the weather to come. Perhaps their last day of travel would be spent in warm sunlight. It almost seemed too much to hope, so Strider cast it from his mind.

They ate the remnants of stale food from his pack, dipping the bread into water to make it palatable. When they were finished, the ranger began to dig into his pack, then stopped and glanced over at the copper-haired woman sipping her willow tea. "Heather, do you mind the smell of pipe-smoke?" he asked.

"You mean to say that you didn't pack enough food to get us from here to there properly, but you have pipe-weed?"

Strider simply drew out his pipe and shrugged. "It will help deter the wild beasts from drawing near..."

"Very well. I am used to it after all."

The ranger winced at that, but hid it quickly as he wondered what exactly she meant by that. It wasn't enough to stop him though. It had been several days since his last smoke. Packing it quickly, he lit his pipe with a twig from the fire. Taking a long draw on it, he blew the smoke out and sighed.

"So this is why this is why a ranger's smell proceeds him," Heather said after a moment, taking another sip of her tea.

"If it bothers you so much-"

"No, that is not all. The pipe-smoke doesn't help, of course, but look at yourself. You're filthy, smoking, with a dead animal tied to your pack, and when was the last time you bathed?"

"You're not so rosy yourself anymore, Lady," the ranger replied, gesturing with his pipe.

"...Do you think I'll ever see Leotbora again?"

Strider bit the stem of his pipe and tilted his head to the side, giving the matter considerable thought. "It seems to me," he said after a moment, "that whatever else she may be she is a horse who takes care of herself, begging your pardon. She'll either have headed back home or found some horses further down the road to stay with. You may not see her again, but rest assured, she will find someone to care for her."

"That's... some comfort, I suppose."

"You've lost a lot these few days. There is no shame in mourning it."

She just shook her head. "I've cried all my tears. I haven't anymore to give."

What could Strider say to that? Puffing slowly on his pipe, he laid his head back on his arm and stared off into the night again. "We should be there by midday tomorrow, if all goes well. We'll decide on the next step then. Get some sleep if you're able." Heather nodded and curled up within the ranger's cloak, while Strider sat there smoking until his pipe went out.

It was cold that night, but without the rain, Strider was able to eventually find sleep, though he slept light as ever. This time it was the first bird-call of the morning that woke him.

Breathing deeply, he sat up and stretched, feeling his weary muscles slowly uncoiling. Looking to the side, he saw the green cloak Heather had hidden herself within. Gently placing a coarse hand upon the bundle, he said, "Heather, awake! I shall see if there is aught fresh to eat." By the responding groan, he knew her to be awake, and he limped down the river bank, checking the green shoots as he passed. It seemed their luck had truly turned for the better as he found near as much to eat as he could carry, and most of it was well enough uncooked.

Returning with a grin, he dumped a portion of his findings into the lap of the bleary-eyed woman who'd set to stirring the embers of the fire from the night before. Pale lips pouting, she picked up one of the plants and ate it, her expression remaining neutral. "I won't lie," she said after she swallowed. "I shall be happy to eat real food once again."

"It's better than yesterday's fare," Strider replied.

"Yes, but not by much."

It was tempting to remind her that they could just as well go without food, if she'd prefer. The ranger knew from long experience how easy it was to go a few days without eating, but he forced himself to recall her gentler existence. Would he wish his lot on her? No. He kept his thoughts to himself and merely nodded along, packing away the sparse vegetables with single-minded dedication.

Once again, he sent her off ahead as he hid the signs of their camp. It did not sit well with him to do so, after all, she had just yesterday declared that she trusted him, why must he hide things from her? It seemed only too obvious that perhaps he was not worthy of her trust, and that was a disheartening thought. He would not frighten her with more tales of danger though, so that was that. He caught up with her quickly and they set to walking down the road side by side.

The sun was shattering the clouds as the morning wore on, and the golden light altered the foreboding landscape. The trees became mouse-gray sculptures rather than greedy hands, and the hash winter grass took on a golden hue and here and there tufts of green shot up. Slowly, ever so slowly the world thawed and their clothes forsook the ever-present damp.

For a time their spirits lifted and Strider did not begrudge Heather when she skipped out ahead, wishing her to find what joy she could after so many solemn days. She was not used to walking though, and they had to pause many times along the way to let her catch her breath. At the last such pause, Strider noticed the lines of pain about her bright eyes. "Here," he said, digging a length of willow bark from his pack. "Chew on this. It tastes bitter indeed when not made into a tea, but we should continue, and I think the pain of your wounds is on you."

Taking it in her hand, she nodded, saying, "Thank you." The ranger began to limp onward again, but she stopped him with her voice. "Strider, I know nothing of you, do I?"

"Very little indeed, Lady." He said with a smile. Again he started to walk off, but he was stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Do you mean always to live like this?" she asked, her expression open, her eyes searching. "Wandering about, I mean, as a ranger."

That gave Strider some pause and he looked off to the south as he thought. "Perhaps not. Though... my future is hidden from me. I think it will be a long and winding way ere I come to live beneath a roof once again."

The woman shook her head sadly. "It does not have to be that way," she whispered, and leaning forward, kissed him.

_Shadows!_

_Starlight!_

The ranger pulled away forcefully and held the woman at arm's length, trying desperately to consider whatever feelings the woman may have had in the matter while still making his plainly known. "Heather, no," he said sternly, wondering what he had done to solicit this.

Heather's eyes went wide in sock and her cheeks turned deep red. There was a flicker there, just for a moment, of something else as well. Anger? Frustration? If it had been anyone else, the ranger may have thought it was hate. Then the woman dropped her gaze to the ground, and tall as Strider was, her movement left him looking at the back of her head. "I - I'm so sorry," she choked out. "I didn't mean to... I just..." She struggled to lift her head once again, and once she did, Strider puzzled over the resolve he saw in her eyes. "There's another, isn't there?"

Feeling suddenly exposed, Strider looked away to compose himself. "Yes," he admitted after a time. "These past four years, my heart has not been my own. Even were it not so, I can neither take a wife nor give my troth to any woman, until I'm proven worthy of it." He looked down at her then, nothing more than friendship in his eyes. "There is a far better man for you," he added, then he laughed suddenly. "Perhaps one who knows what it is to ply a trade and make a home."

"Perhaps," she said. "You do not seem to be a man who would take to a domestic life."

Strider just shook his head.

"Well then, we'd better keep moving, wouldn't you say?" So saying, she jabbed the chunk of willow bark into her mouth and strode off swiftly enough too keep her face from the ranger's view as he walked along with her. Dispite her brave words, it seemed she was still embarrassed and not yet ready to keep her face fully composed.

It seemed apparent to the ranger that Heather's embarrassment had given her newfound strength. She did not so much as slacken her pace for nigh an hour, and even when she was flagging, she did not call for a halt. Most regrettable though was the fact that conversation between them was now scarce, neither knowing quite what to say to the other in light of recent developments. The ranger could almost hear Halbarad's voice, telling him once again that 'no simple friends exist between men and women,' a theory that Strider had often rejected but now was forced to consider to some degree.


	6. The End of the Road

"Is that it?" Heather asked some time later. Smoke was floating up from just over the rise, or so it seemed, and the braying of dogs near at hand seemed to confirm the presence of human habitation.

"It is," the ranger replied, coming to a standstill to better study the smoke.

She'd already caught her breath when she came abreast of the man, but her face fell as she considered the black clouds. "Strider, what will I do when I reach the city."

"Start a new life, I expect."

"But... how?"

The ranger's laughter was deep and harsh at that. "Am I" he asked, gesturing at himself to encompass his ragged raiment. "truly the best person to ask?"

"I don't know anyone else."

The ranger bit his lip and nodded. "I think that I would go down and ask for work, then lodging. I'm certain you could find someone who has need of aid."

"But... relying entirely on charity? You put too much faith in the kindness of others."

"I assure you, I do not. Here," the ranger said, and he pulled his pack from his shoulders. He untied the wolf's pelt from the rest and set it aside, then pulled out his purse. Slinging his pack back on, he picked up the two things and handed them to her. "It's not much, but it should fetch you the price of a meal, if the innkeeper keeps his coffers tight."

Opening the sack, she peered in and found the few copper coins and two tins that Strider still had to his name. When she pulled the drawstring closed once again, she looked ready to cry. "Strider, this won't do me any good. It would hardly buy me a share of grain from the stables."

He shrugged wearily. "That well may be, but sadly it is all this poor ranger has."

"Liar!" she hissed, her eyes wild with unchecked rage. The ranger stumbled back in shock. "I know what you carry! I've seen that bauble on your hand! It looks to be silver. It could buy five taverns and all that was in them! But no, you would send me on my way with change and a ruined skin! You would have me be a harlot in truth, wouldn't you!"

"No!" he exclaimed, entirely confounded. "I would have you lead a merry life, far from harm!"

"Then you could surely spare the ring, after all, I'm sure you've more ill-gotten treasures hidden away in the hills."

"It was passed to me by my father, more dear than I can tell. I could not part with it were I dying. I beg you, understand me."

"I cannot believe this," she said, walking away, one hand on her hip, the other running through her hair. Then she spun. "I thought we were friends! I thought you cared for me!"

"We are! I do! I would give you a hundred golden rings to aid you if I could."

"But not one silver ring."

"Not this ring."

"Ah Heather! Your trust in men is ever to be misplaced it seems. I should have known from the moment I saw you that you were trouble! How could I not see?"

"Please," he whispered, taking a deep breath, attempting to be a calming force. "Listen to what you are saying. I've never done aught to harm you. Be reasonable."

"REASONABLE!" she roared. "Reasonable! You would have me 'ply my trade' to earn my bread! Now I know the truth of your ilk! This is why they say never to trust a ranger, but did I ever listen to them? No, and how I regret it!" Stepping nearer to him, she pointed at his chest. "You are the most conniving, faithless... Bye-blow I could ever have met!" she shouted, stabbing him with her pointing finger, punctuating her words. With each prod, the ranger took a small step back, holding his hands up, palms outward, willing her to stop. His efforts were useless.

All at once she let out a shrill scream and bolted off into the woods. Not knowing what else to do, Strider charged after her.

"Heather? Heather!" he called, crashing through branches and brambles. Several paces away he could see her racing up the hill, cresting it, plunging down the other side. Normally, he would have thought himself hindered compared to the slight woman, an elk crashing through the wood would have been caught up far more than a squirrel, but that did not seem to be the case. Whatever grace she had, it was surely overcome by her blind anger, for he could see her striking the branches of trees and coming in harsh contact with all else that grew there. When she finally fell, he was not far behind her. Clambering down the uneven slope, he came to a stop a few paces away, wary of approaching her as he would a wounded beast. "Heather, Heather, are you alright?" he asked, edging forward, using one of the hardwood trees to steady himself.

Hair clotted with leaves and twigs, she turned her wild blue eyes on him and he gasped. Her face was cut in many places, bruised in others. Her lip was bleeding where it had split. Her thin, white arms were similarly abused, appearing instead to be a myriad of colors. "Come no closer!" she cried. Then, spinning in the dirt where she sat, her hand found a rock. Bringing it up, she struck herself with it on the forward edge of her arms, across her face, raining blow after blow upon herself.

The ranger was at a complete loss. "Stop!" he called. "Stop now!" Not knowing what else to do, he raced forward and grabbed her arm, stilling it. As soon as he did though, she fell backwards and shrieked.

"Let go! Let go I tell you! Leave me be!" she wailed so loud that it echoed. Finding his hold iron strong, she reached across with her wounded limb and raked her nails down the ranger's arm.

Choking back a cry, Strider nonetheless kept his grip firm, lest she should strike herself again. But he was not one to let another harm him at will, and he pinned her other arm down as well with his free hand.

"Get off me!"

"What madness has come over you?" he asked softly, searching the small woman's face for some sign.

"Let go!"

"Only when I know that you won't strike yourself again."

Sobbing, she struggled against him, thrashing about like a pinned snake. Then her eyes flicked to the side and the corner of her lip twisted upwards.

He stared up at the sky, lost in it's brightness and the tiny clouds floating across, and was quite content to continue doing so. That was not right. Experience had taught him well that if he did not wish to rise after a fall, something had gone amiss. If only he knew what it was!

Starting to pull himself upward, he shivered and clutched at his sword-arm. Something was wrong with it. Then his hand closed around a wooden shaft and the ranger's eyes widened. He'd been shot? Heather!

He turned his head to where he had last seen her and briefly glimpsed the copper-haired woman with the thick arms of a man folded about her. Then a boot slammed into his chest. Falling back to the ground with a grunt, he looked up to see a heavy-set man standing half on him, an ax at the ready in his hand. "Not a move from you, filthy ranger or I'll end you!" the man spat.

Panting heavily now as pain worked its way to his muddled mind, Strider let the woodcutter's spittle roll off his face, silver eyes boring through his attacker. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

The burly man just leaned down harder on him saying, "Quiet you!"


	7. Lies and Deceit

Note: Sorry for the delay in uploading... I got distracted by life. Also... erh... caution, this chapter isn't fluffy bunnies.

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><p>Now he was forced to stare at the sky whether he wished to or no. That or the blunt face of his attacker. From a short ways off, he could hear sobbing and quiet shushing. "You're alright now, Miss. You're alright. That ranger isn't going to harm you now that we're here," said a deep voice.<p>

"What are we going to do with him?" the man on top of Strider asked.

"Well, I know the price he should be made pay for this, but I think we'd better have the mayor decide. Tie him up."

Even as a length of rope flew across his line of vision and landed in his attacker's hands, he struggled through the pain to try to understand what they were saying. The price he should pay? For what? He'd never so much as cursed at her, which was less than she could say about him.

The man with a boot on Strider's chest leaned forward and snatched up both the ranger's arms in a meaty fist, tying them with the quick efficiency of a sailor or a stockman one. Strider gritted his teeth and watched as the world faded in and out of view. He could feel dampness breaking out across his brow. "Please..." he gasped between breaths. "see to the arrow... else you'll be carrying me."

"Larch?" the big man atop him called.

"Do it," came the reply. "If nothing else, it'll show the vagrant how high above him we are."

There was no gentleness in the man's movements, but Strider had to admit that his swiftness was a kindness. The ranger hardly had time to brace himself before the arrow was unceremoniously torn from him. A strangled cry tore itself loose from his lips as he fought to keep the scene before him in focus, but the gray haze was thick and hard to bat away. Barely a moment later the man had wrapped a cloth about his wound, cinching it down hard to stop the bleeding. "Better now?" the man asked.

Strider just breathed and waited for his vision to clear.

He could hear the three of them talking, Heather crying. Many of their words he understood with great clarity, but the pain kept slicing through his thoughts when he came near to making sense of what they were saying. He wished the man would let him sit up so he could see what was happening. It would be so much easier to understand with his eyes than with his ears.

"Get up!" the man looming over him ordered at last, with a sharp tug on Strider's tether.

Grunting and locking his jaw, the ranger struggled to his feet, staggering when the world threatened to tilt. His black locks fell before his eyes and he peered through them to see Heather with Larch's arm wrapped around her shoulders, walking off toward the town. These men were simple townspeople, lawful men if their need to speak to the Mayor was any sign. Why had they attacked him, bound him? She'd spoken to them. The matter should have been cleared up.

He received no warning, just a sharp tug on the rope, when the men decided it was time to head off. Biting his tongue and steeling his expression, the ranger allowed himself to be led toward town like some misbehaved animal. Well, it was no matter. Everything would soon be set to right when they spoke to this Mayor fellow. Surely he would have more wits about him than these two men.

By the time the first timber houses came into sight through the trees, Strider had managed to master his pain, though the effort still cost him. A dog barked at him from a short ways off, thankfully trained well enough not to attack. A tawny-haired boy raced toward the dog, then stopped and stared. "Who are they?" he called out, eyeing Heather briefly but quickly finding that the bound and bedraggled man walking behind was far more interesting.

"Run ahead and get the Mayor, Lad" Larch ordered.

The boy appeared to be very disappointed, his young face pouting, but he quickly nodded and trotted off.

The town was an exceedingly small one, just barely meriting the label, and as such, it took no time at all for small houses and outbuildings to replace the trees and fields and an even shorter time to stumble to a standstill before the town center. The whole town was already gathered, or near enough. One self-important man stood in front of the rest, a deep scowl set in his fleshy features, though whether it was at seeing a man brought to him bound, or whether it was simply from being disturbed, Strider could not guess.

"What seems to be the matter, Larch?" the Mayor asked in a dull tone, his gray mustache bouncing along with every word. "And for all that is good, why do you have this man bound so?" Strider stood tall, but unassuming in the face of the Mayor's scrutiny. He felt the man's small black eyes run up and down him, pausing on the bloodied bandage about his arm and skipping down to his bound leg.

"We found him... _attacking_... this woman here, off in the woods," Larch growled. "Fortunately, we stopped him before it could come to anything. Though, I dare say, the lady is worse for wear." He nodded at her bruised and torn skin.

"Attacking?" Strider breathed, jaw slacking in his utter disbelief. "Good masters, I did no such thing!" he said louder, stepping forward.

"Back you!" his attacker barked, and stepped toward him, ax in the lead.

The ranger took a step back, then turned his eyes on the copper-haired woman. "Tell them, Heather! They will not hear me!" he all but begged.

The faces of all the many people gathered there focused on the one little woman, leaning heavily on the massive Larch. Sniffling, trembling, she wiped her tears off on her sleeve and took a step forward. "And why should they?" she asked, more pale tears falling to her cheeks and pattering on the ground. Then a fell light lit her face and she snarled, "You monster!"

The ranger could find neither word to say nor thought to think. With a will all their own, his legs bore him a step backward and, striking the end of the tether, crumpled beneath him, leaving him on his knees before the town. Silver eyes looked through the woman he'd safeguarded all this way, through the towns people, through the town.

"I'm sorry, good Sirs," she said, her voice breaking. "I was foolish to trust this one. I'd always been told to be ware of his ilk, but a lonely girl dreaming... a naive girl... his talk of adventure was too much for me, I fear." She looked back down at him, her eyes blue embers. "His honeyed words kept me prisoner for longer than I care to say. Only lately did he begin to show his true self. He... struck me... so I tried to run away and he - he found me." She looked down and swallowed hard, before setting her swimming eyes on Larch. "That's when you found me," she finished. Larch wrapped a protective arm about her shoulders and she leaned into him and wept.

Dazed through the ranger may have been, her words still pierced the fog and echoed in his mind. To say he could not believe what he was hearing would be a horrible understatement. He did not know what game she was playing at, but it had become quite clear that she did not mean to defend him. Indeed, now it was she that spat false accusation, like poison, upon him.

Strider staggered to his feet and nearly fell again as some muscle tugged on his wounds. "Never did I so much as lay a hand on this woman!" he shouted searching the gathered people for an understanding face.

"I saw you!" Larch growled back.

The ranger paused, thinking back to what the man might have seen. When he remembered, he winced. "I was only stopping her from striking herself, I swear it!" Still the crowd remained impassive. "It is true that we journeyed together from her home, but I hardly poured honey in her ear. Her husband had wrongfully accused her and had struck her himself. I stopped him ere he could land another blow, and in his anger the man banished her from his sight. I offered her safe passage to this town only, and I kept to the letter of my word. She was simply a woman in need of aid, and what man of honor would ignore that?"

"You speak to us of honor, Ranger?" laughed a woman from the crowd, a child on her hip.

Strider payed her no heed. "All was well until we neared this town, then madness struck her and she ran into the woods, beating herself! How could I allow that to go unchecked?"

"A likely story," Larch surmised.

"The truth," Strider amended, his expression taking on a steely glint.

"Do your lies never end?" Heather demanded, seemingly held up by anger alone. "And there! See upon his finger? That ring he stole from me, took by force! It was all my father ever gave me!"

Larch strode up to Strider grim-faced and reached to take the ring from the ranger's finger, but the latter curled his hand into a knotted fist and met his gaze evenly. "The ring is mine," Strider whispered deadly soft.

The brawny woodsman leaned back and smiled at that. "Oh, and how does a ranger come upon such a jewel save by threats and deceit?"

"Through a father who bequeathed it me."

"Indeed? Never was a ranger's father worth so much. Do you save all your well-crafted lies for innocent women? Give it to me."

"No."

Without warning a meaty hand the size of a cudgel caught Strider upside the head, laying him out on the dry grass. He groaned and attempted to rise, but a boot stomped down on his bound wrists and a hand grasped onto the ring of Barahir, ripping it from Strider's hand. "No!" As soon as the boot was removed, the ranger scrambled back to his feet, breathing hard. "Please! I cannot be parted with it!"

"The ring's the least of your worries, boy," Larch growled.

"That's enough of that, Larch," the mayor interrupted. "We're not goblins. We don't torment our prisoners for pleasure. We must decide what to do."

"Release me," Strider said. "give me back my ring, and you'll never see hide nor hair of me again."

Heather, clinging to Larch like a burr, shivered. "You cannot mean to let him loose! He'll come back! I'll never be free of him! I cannot live my life in constant fear! He'll _attack _me... again..."

The mayor tut-tutted. "Of course not, my dear girl. My town will never be one in which criminals are free to roam, especially not those guilty of such heinous crimes. The question is, what shall his penalty be?"

"Look at her!" Larch demanded, pointing to the bruises that littered her body, the cuts that stood out for their bright red among all the blues and browns. "What if we'd been any later in coming? How would she look then? Would she even be alive? I say we put him in a barrel, fill it with nails, and roll him down a hill!"

"I thought we weren't goblins," a new voice interjected. Strider searched the crowd, the few shreds of hope he had left pinned on this newcomer. Then he saw the man, an old fellow who was walking up to the mayor with a frown.

"And I suppose you have an opinion on this matter too, Thistledown?" the mayor sighed, obviously quite annoyed.

"I believe it is customary to hang individuals accused of such crimes," Thistledown replied, and Strider's heart plummeted. "The old oak should suffice."

The mayor thought for a moment before nodding. "Yes, that seems fitting. Someone go get some rope. I must confess though, it's been some years since I've seen a hanging."

"That's alright," Thistledown said with a smile, patting the mayor's shoulder. "I remember quite well. I can officiate it, if you'd like."

From the abysmal expression on the mayor's face, it seemed apparent that there had long been some sort of power struggle between the two. It was not enough though, for the mayor sighed and returned the smile. "I suppose this once, I'll let you have your way. I don't want it said that my town did not properly see to all matters of custom in something so important as this."

The ranger let his head fall then, completely dismayed. To hear them talk, one would think they were discussing a merry outing, not the end of a man's life, but then he remembered the hanging's he'd seen and swallowed. Perhaps there was not so much of a difference after all.

"Come!" the woodsman on the other end of the ranger's tether ordered with a sharp tug.

How dearly, Strider wished he would stop his tugging! Taking a few uneven strides, he alleviated the pull on his bad arm and proceeded to follow the crowd deeper into the town. Hastily, he tried the knots, grinding his teeth together with the pain of doing so. It was useless though, the woodsman crafted his knots too well. He could sink his heels into the dirt, thrash and fight and perhaps win his freedom. But no, there were too many, and while he was a force to be reckoned with, he could not, in his condition, hope to fight free of so many sturdy men as were gathered there. Time was running short, he knew, but perhaps an opportunity would present itself soon, he would bide these next few minutes.

Coming around a bend, his eyes found what was surely the oak in question; a giant, ancient tree with mighty bows sprawling out in every direction. Large, hopeless eyes could not look away. So this is what it had come to? This is how the Heir of Elendil died? The legacy of his kin would end here and the sheer injustice of it all made him ill.

The same tawny-headed youth came running up to them once again, this time baring the fateful rope. "There's a lad," Thistledown said, rubbing a hand in the boy's hair. Larch took the rope and began setting a knot in one end. "Now you just throw it over the branch and hoist away," Thistledown explained.

"I know how it works," Larch muttered without looking up from his work.

"I may not remember this well," the mayor interrupted. "but there's supposed to be a stool or bucket or some such."

"Surely that's not needed!" Thistledown said, frowning.

"If we're going to be traditional about this, we may as well be traditional. Lad, go fetch a stool."

"No!" called Heather. Everyone stopped and looked at the small fiery woman, then, little by little, all eyes followed her gaze to a palomino mare standing in a paddock not twenty yards away. "Use that horse." Strider was dumbstruck, though by now he supposed he should have expected this turn.

"That mare?"

"Yes, that's my Leotbora, I'd know her anywhere!" there was unmistakable joy in her expression as she said this, but then she sobered. "The ranger was cruel to her too. It seems only fit that she be part of his justice."

"Is this true?" the mayor asked a man to his left.

"I'd been wondering how such a fine horse got all the way out there," the man on the left replied.

"Saddle the mare."

Minutes later, Strider found himself beneath the Old Oak, his hands bound before him, a rope about his neck, and Ungoliath between his knees. How had it come to this?

Looking out on the crowd, he saw faces ranging from excited to morbidly curious all about him. Larch was glowering at him while Heather cried in the crook of his shoulder. Out of all those gathered, only Thistledown seemed to have any sort of sorrow or regret.

One last time, he tried the bonds that held him, but they were no looser. Having nothing more to do, he straightened his back and raised his chin and looked down upon the people gathered as would a lord of old. People took half-steps back in surprise and some felt a moment's remorse. His gaze faltered though, when it fell on the red-haired woman, unable to check his confusion and sorrow.

There was a slap from behind, and Ungoliath snorted and raced off. For a moment Strider was weightless, then he crashed down and the rope snugged about his neck. Instinctively he clawed at the rope, willing it to wither and rot away. But no, that was useless. Perhaps he could climb the rope with his hands tied before them as they were. Reaching up, he pulled himself up the rope, and for the briefest of moments he could breathe again, but his wounded arm roared and he came back down with a crash. Now his feet kicked and his fingers clawed at the rope in earnest. Oh how his lungs ached! He twisted first this way, then that. The crowd's expressions were changing. Some laughed, but more were shocked and horrified. Oddly, that gave him some comfort. If only he could get loose! His nails dug harder at the rope and the minutes ticked by. His strength was leaving him, his movements growing slower, his grasps at the rope weaker. Thistledown looked as if he might cry. Then he saw Heather's face, she was looking him in the eye now, russet hair dancing in the wind about her thin frame, one corner of her mouth curled up into a smile.

His hands slipped from rope.


	8. The Morning After

Note: Sorry again for taking so long. This is a very short chapter, second to last, in fact, so I'll upload the last chapter early to make up for it.

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><p>The next morning came early. The sun rose in all it's golden glory, and little by little, the town that had been up so late in the night with revelry came awake. Larch, however, had no problem waking. He rose with the sun and went out into the woods, chopping trees with abandon, waiting for the sun to climb high enough into the sky.<p>

Hours passed and at last it seemed a proper time. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he put away his work and went into the town, and on into the inn. "Has Heather come down yet?" he asked the innkeeper's wife.

"Indeed she has. She's just over there, by the fire," the wife said. Larch started to walk away, but her hand on his arm stopped him and he turned to see the old woman smiling ear to ear and giving him a wink. "That new girl is quite the lovely one, don't you think?"

"Yes, she is, but I'll not hear of anyone talking about her that way."

"I wouldn't either, but I can't help but notice that you have taken quite a fancy to the lass."

Larch just grinned and shook the innkeeper's wife's hand off. Walking toward the hearth, the woodsman saw her and his breath abandoned him. He stopped for a moment to compose himself, then walked over with a bright smile. "Good morning, Heather," he said. "Are you doing well?"

She looked up at him and smiled sadly. "Very well now, thank you. What brings you to the inn at this hour? I hear that you work out in the woods all day."

"Usually," Larch conceded. "but I needed to see how my Lady Fair fared."

Heather gave a soft laugh like the chiming of bells. "Have a seat."

He did so, and couldn't keep himself from looking her delicate frame over. Noticing something, he frowned. "Where is your ring?"

"I was forced to sell it," she whispered, tears coming to her eyes. "I didn't want to, but I have nothing to my name, and a woman must eat."

"Why didn't you come to me?" Larch asked, horrified. "I would have loaned you the money. You needn't have sold something so dear to you. Who did you sell it to?"

"Thistledown. He seemed to have some interest in it and money enough to spare."

"I'll go buy it back!"

"No!" she said, staying him with a swift hand. "No. It's alright. It was a sacrifice, but it was worth it to be able to start a new life here..." Her blue eyes found his and all the other things that she wanted him to hear were communicated, and Larch kissed her.


	9. Introductions

Author's Note: And now, only a few years late, comes the end of the chapter. I apologize.

"I must say, I did not think that when I finally met Isildur's Heir, he would be dangling at the end of a hangman's noose."

Strider had not yet realized he was awake when he heard the voice, but hearing his identity spoken aloud gave urgency to his waking, and he struggled to sit up and get into a defensible position.

He failed.

Pain shot off like fireworks through every limb and every hair and he knew his throat had been cut ear-to-ear. He would have screamed, but he did not have the strength, so he screwed his eyes shut and wept.

There was rustling and footsteps, though he didn't care, and thick warm fabric draped over him. "Ah, Aragorn! I did not wish this. I fear my skills in healing are far short of those you are accustomed to." The back of a warm hand touched his cheek and he flinched away from the bite of it's touch. There was a loud sigh. "You are safe now. Sleep, if you are able." The footsteps and rustling fabric moved away.

Minutes or hours, he knew not which, ticked away with agonizing slowness. He lay there, twitching at times, still at others, but always feeling pricks and needles and stabs as air found it's way to places long deprived of it; his chest, his knuckles, between his toes. And all the while he saw the faces. The faces of those who had laughed. Their joy, their pitiless curiosity all bent upon him. And he saw Heather, lovely and fair as Elbereth, merciless and cruel as the red-locked Noldor. Oh how she'd betrayed him! Standing there, delighting in his death when he had risked much to aid her!

He shrunk back from those memories then, unable to bear them. Instead, he slowly remembered those things he had seen after the white flash when his vision had failed him; the tender smile of a mother and the stern protection of one who was as a father. He'd recalled days long forgotten, which he'd spent under the leaves of elven trees, or amongst his kindred in rare times of peace. And ever there, a fleeting glimpse as she darted around the corner, fairest of her kindred. Tinuviel! His Tinuviel! There at the end of all things, her starlit gaze had fallen upon him, and she'd spoken his true name.

"Are you awake, Aragorn?" came the same voice he'd heard before. The ranger jerked away from it and this time managed a hiss as his muscles cramped and twitched. "Don't move. Can you open your eyes?"

Fearfully, Aragorn cracked one lid, and then another. The light hurt his eyes and the world tilted and whirled, but as he lay still the movement slowed until he could make out the room and the old man who stood in it. "Thistle?" he whispered, his throat refusing to utter any true sound. "You... help? Wass you... hadem... hangme..." He breathed hard, his face going stark white as he did so. "spyvenemy" His fingers sought a blade, though he knew he could not wield one, and his fingers barely stirred the cloth over them.

"Stop talking, dear Boy," the old man said, his face looking almost as drawn and pale as the ranger's. "You're throat's not ready for it. It's taken a great deal of abuse of late." Then he held something warm against Aragorn's lips. "Drink this. It should help."

It was all Strider could do not to choke, but he managed to swallow it down somehow, and indeed, the soothing warmth and herbs helped a little immediately and as time went on, he could feel the pain slowly dulling. "Thank you," he sighed.

The old man just grinned and nodded. "To answer your questions; no, I am not a servant of the enemy. I dare say I'm quite the opposite, though now I can see that perhaps I gave you a fright, using your true name the moment you awoke. And yes, I had them hang you. It was that or roll down a hill in a barrel, and I think you'll agree that a hanging is much easier to fake than a body riddled with holes. Furthermore, if you'll recall, I tried to keep them from putting you on that horse. If I'd had my way you would have lost consciousness in a matter of moments." Aragorn's eyebrows drew together a hair, and Thistledown nodded, somehow understanding. "You, Aragorn, are every bit the son of your fathers. I had to let you hang there for a quarter of an hour before you stopped kicking long enough for me to convince them you were dead. _That _is why you feel so poorly just now."

"I wish... they'd hung you ere... you could let me off the... noose," the ranger replied, feeling well enough now to string more words together, but still thoroughly convinced that dying had hurt less than coming back to life.

"You don't mean that," the old man chided. "Now I suppose you're wondering how I know who you are, right?" He dug into his gray robes and pulled out a small silver ring with a green gem set in it. "Baubles of any sort stand out on Rangers. No matter how noble their heritage. Not much wealth is left to them. But this is a 'king' among oddities, if I dare say. The ring of Barahir upon the hand of a Dunadan could only mark the son of Arathorn, a foster son of a certain elven-lord."

Aragorn began breathing harder once again, and his mouth opened as if to speak, but the old man quieted him with a gesture. "You've few enough words in you, save them for when I don't know what you're going to ask." The merry twinkle in the old man's eyes was infuriating. "You want to know who I am that I should know all this. Correct? Well, I am an old friend of your foster-father's. Perhaps you remember, or maybe you were too young, but I led some dwarves through Rivendell once, a long time ago. Dwarves and a hobbit."

Now the ranger's eyes went wide and he gasped out, "Mithrandir?"

"Indeed. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Elves would not let the passage of dwarves through their land fade from memory so soon. Nay, never. No need to introduce yourself though. I obviously already know who you are, and I assure you, I'm more than pleased to meet you at long last."

"Thistledown?"

"Ah, yes. The mayor here seems to be rather stuck in his ways. I tried to convince him to call me Gandalf like all the others, but he insisted on a local name. So, you see, I'm Thistledown, old, gray, and thorny, prepared to wander off at the first stiff wind. I will admit, there's a certain kind of poetry to it."

The ranger started to chuckle, but instantly regretted it. Reaching up a hand to hold his throat, he paused. Beneath his hand was an angry bruise of an entirely different sort, and both above and beneath it there were lines of hard crust.

"I wish they'd had the sense to bind your hands behind you. You clawed yourself horribly trying to be rid of the noose. Rest. When you are well enough, I will get you from this town unseen."

"Thank you," the ranger whispered. "What of Heather?"

"What of her?"

"We cannot let one such as her run rampant... never facing the consequences of all she's... done."

"What would you do? Execute her as she did you? Imprison her? Have her flogged?"

It was difficult, but at length the ranger shook his head.

"Then there is nothing we can do. One day she will have driven all from her and not a soul in the world will care, and that, Aragorn, will be a worse fate than any you could give her... and perhaps even a worse fate than she deserves, for she was hurt once too, long ago, by one who should have loved her. Rest well and do not think on her. We shall leave when you are ready."


End file.
